


Advent

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: Alright, I'm trying this again, after a dry period with my writing.  I'm also trying to finish the 2018, so we'll see how this all goes.Also, I see that there are some new tags!  Wow!
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & Original Male Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Biological Clock [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/62053
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Sherlock is experimenting

Sherlock Holmes was experimenting with the ash patterns of small explosions on construction materials. He’d gotten into a discussion with the Fire Forensics expert called in by the Met, and was now intrigued by a passing statement from the woman. He had a limited time to engage in these experiments before John and the children returned from the church service.

He considered ignoring Mycroft’s call. The mobile went into the drawer. 

Alice Brown’s phone on the desk in the office began to ring, then a moment after that the land line upstairs in the flat. When he heard Mrs. Hudson’s distinctive mobile ring, the tall detective growled and turned off the bunsen burner. Dragging the drawer open he grabbed his phone and hit redial.

He growled, “Alright, Mycroft, what do you **want**?” just as Mrs. Hudson opened the door, saying, “Sherlock, dear, I think your brother wants you to call him.”

He waved at her impatiently, but then shouted after her, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!”

“Sherlock, would you please meet me at my office?” Mycroft asked.

“So polite, Mycroft. What do you need? John isn’t back from church yet. You should know that.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “I’d prefer if you didn’t bring John.”

Sherlock was in the hallway grabbing his Belstaff, as he said, “I’m on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm trying this again, after a dry period with my writing. I'm also trying to finish the 2018, so we'll see how this all goes.
> 
> Also, I see that there are some new tags! Wow!


	2. At church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes the children to church. Though he's not really present.

“December 1st, the beginning of Advent, which is the celebration of the coming of the Christ,” John Watson read out loud from the bulletin to his three children, wriggling about on the solid, polished wooden pew.

“Baby Jesus,” Ross said to Miri. That was, in itself, unusual. Ross could speak, and they tried to encourage her. Miri tended to speak for her twin, and Siger had a tendency to pontificate instead of allowing his sisters to speak. John wryly thought, “I wonder where that comes from.”

“Is this the day that we put up the fairy lights, Daddy?” Siger whispered toward his father’s ear. Siger’s whisper was usually quieter than Miri and Ross’s attempts. Today, the red haired little boy was having difficulty maintaining his excitement. It was Christmas! Or almost.

John feigned surprise. “I suppose it is, Siger. Did you want to help put them up this year?”

“Yes!” Siger sat up straighter in the pew. Usually he listened to the organ music, but Christmas has its own fascination.

Miri, who had been busily coloring with Ross turned her head. “I want to help too!” came out louder than John was comfortable with in church. He leaned closer to the girls, and his “shhh” was practically inaudible. This wasn’t their cue for absolute silence. John used that only when it was an emergency, and there had been a big discussion on being quiet or not voicing observations for the sake of politeness, and refraining for urgent, possibly dangerous reasons.

The sturdy, blond haired doctor tried to focus on the readings for the day, but he was just now realizing that they’d not made plans for Christmas this year. Not any. John hadn’t talked about presents with Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. No decisions had been made on whether or not to get a real tree – since Miri seemed to be developing allergies. 

They’d need to get some new Christmas music for Siger. And when had Siger gotten his violin? Was it time to encourage Miri and Ross to take up an instrument? Did they have photographs of the girls? Not nearly so many, John thought, of any of the children as they’d gotten older. It had been easier when Siger was a baby, and, as Sherlock would say dryly, they’d outnumbered their children.

John rose for the hymn, sat, knelt, all without paying attention to the service. He was usually dutiful about focusing, as much for himself as it was to provide a good example for the children. As the girls and Siger exited their pew, John began catching up crayons, mittens, hats, and other items the children had left behind in their race for the gathering area. John realized that the service was over, and he’d not heard a bit of the sermon. Perhaps they should go for a walk on the way home, and do some window shopping. He could get a feel on what the children would like to do to celebrate the holiday this year.


	3. Mycroft's Office

Mycroft Holmes ignored his brother’s sweeping entrance, flaring black wool overcoat and all, as he finished a call he had not wanted to take in the first place. “Yes, ambassador, I do understand the seriousness of the situation. No, that is not something that I am free to discuss with you. There are other channels for those requests. It is out of my hands. Thank you for understanding. Now, my apologies, but I have another appointment.”

Sherlock smirked as he examined the miniatures and photographs decorating the polished mahogany shelves along the side of his brother’s desk. “I should have brought some of my explosives with me. That would have gotten him off of the line in a hurry.” He gave a small laugh at his brother’s expression.

The tall, ginger haired government “official” pulled a file from the top right desk drawer. “Read this, please.” He placed it exactly upon the mirror polish of his desk, easily reached from one of the caramel coloured leather chairs in front of it.

Pulling off his coat and laying it over the back of one chair Sherlock sat down in the other and paused as he reached for the hard copy file. Looking up at the top of the shelf he had been perusing he gestured toward the two small beings standing watch atop the bookcase. “Really, Mycroft? Where did you even find those?”

“My minions? They were a gift from John,” Mycroft told his brother with a bland smile.

“John couldn’t even reach that high,” Sherlock said pointedly as he pulled the file to his side of the desk.

Raising one elegant eyebrow, Mycroft pointed out, “I didn’t say he placed them there. John left them with me over a year ago.” He had waited for months for Sherlock to noticed the tiny toys, and was pleased to have disconcerted his brother over such a small thing.

Sherlock gave a chuff for a comment, then began to read. “You’ve known this for six months?” he growled, “Two labs. Two of them! Not just the Initiative?”

“We’ve been doing research. The lab has been closed for some time. Its timeline mirrors the Initiative, although it was much, much smaller. And there have been rather pressing events occurring that needed to be handled.” Mycroft knew he did not need to remind any Briton about what was going on in Europe, let alone across the pond.

“This sample of reproductive material came from a different lab. It isn’t mine, that’s clear. Why would Moriarty be messing about with in vitro of a singular individual? His own? He was attempting to have his own child? Wouldn’t it have been easier to slip that in with the larger batch of pregnancies from the Initiative?” Sherlock wondered out loud. He did not bother asking why the Napoleon of Crime had not gone about it in the regular way.

“Presumably,” Mycroft agreed, “Though we are speaking of Jim Moriarty, and logic does not necessarily enter into it.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “And the possibility that he may have used Harry Watson’s genetic material in his attempt is why you did not want John here? Mycroft, sentiment?”

Mycroft stirred uneasily. “It occurred to me that you might wish to tell him in your own way. You are in a better position to facilitate the notification without John raging out the door to the address on the dossier demanding a return of his blood kin.”

“And,” Sherlock prompted his brother.

“And to prevent him from doing something rash like removing Siger from his school.”

“Possibly. I will have to think about this. You have, after all, sat on this information for six months. If Siger was in imminent danger you would have handled the situation yourself,” it was said with complete confidence.

“Of course, brother mine,” was the reply.


	4. x = Vx * t. y = h + Vy * t - g * t² / 2

By the shine of the fairy lights they’d hung last night, John Watson studied the sheet of hieroglyphics Siger handed him to check. The sigh that heaved out of his body prompted a concerned look from Siger. “It’s okay, Daddy, I can ask _Pere_ to check it.”

John gritted his teeth, then regretted that. More than a bit not good to make a small boy feel unhappy just because John was not a maths wizard. Taking another deep breath, John relaxed. He smiled, and told his son, “I’m afraid you’ll have to, Sweet. What are these formulas for?”

“Those are trajectories for the catapult that James and I are building. I’m planning a medieval castle, and James is helping me figure out the siege engines that we’d need to guard against. And what we’d need to have on the walls to repel invaders!”

“I can see you as a knight, Siger, in plate mail, commanding the walls during the siege!” John gave the almost seven year old a hug.

“Just like you, Daddy!” Siger’s grin looked so much like Sherlock’s. It was the uninhibited openness of his face that made it all his own. “ _Pere_ says you’re the legendary white knight. He’s the black-hearted pirate.”

“Black haired, not black hearted,” John murmured softly. Siger gave him a quick answering hug and dashed off to find his piratical father.

Well. Scrubbing a hand through his greying hair, John Watson thought that perhaps he’d best get supper started. He might not be able to check the children’s homework, but he could make certain that they’d get their suppers on time. Tonight he’d ask Sherlock to explain the formulas.

After the children were put to bed, Sherlock Holmes stared in frustration at his partner. “How can you not understand these formulas, John?” he asked, “You use them when you shoot.”

John stared. “I don’t use formulas, Sherlock. I used practice to learn the skill, and I just shoot.”

“You take into account the wind, the distance, the ammunition, the type of gun, surely?”

John Watson growled. “I take those into account, but I don’t think of those in terms of numbers and add them all together.” He opened the door to 221C and gestured for his crazy spouse to precede him.

The dark haired detective waved a hand to mimic a hand guy. “You just shoot?”

“I just shoot.”

“Fascinating,” those bright eyes peered at him, “I really had not thought of that at all. We need to go to the range so that I can study your shooting. How much training did you engage in to attain your proficiency?”

“I shoot, and you stare at me? Is that it?” John did not sound enthusiastic.

“Well, I do calculations, and determine what your ratio is, yes. Then I can compare that to the sharpshooters that Lestrade and Mycroft can obtain for me through their agencies. Time well spent, and it has the bonus of being something that Mycroft and his spouse won’t fuss about,” the detective, still slender after all these years, pretended to shoot his finger at the stairwell wall.

That made John snicker. “They’re still complaining about your explosives experiments?”

“I got a license. They should be pleased,” Sherlock snapped.

Another deep sigh. Really, John was sighing altogether too much lately. “Alright, we’ll go.”

His partner said thoughtfully, “I wonder when we should start Siger in learning how to shoot?”

“No,” John Watson said firmly. “Siger will learn when he gets older, if he has mind to. He’s not to be experimented on for that.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and swooped past John downstairs into the office kitchen to examine his petri dishes filled, hopefully, with mold.


	5. An introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new element.

James examined his face in the mirror above the lav sink. “I don’t look like Mother,” he said, uncertain. Mother had blonde hair, wavy, carefully styled, where his was black and straight. When he woke up in the morning it would stick straight up. He liked to pull his bangs down over the high forehead, but Mother had instructed him to leave the hair pushed back. James hated that big forehead, or had until Siger told him it looked smart. Prossie had agreed. Prossie’s real name was Proserpine, which was pronounced “per-seff-oh-nee”, but she let James and Siger call her Prossie instead. She hadn’t liked Persie.

James was only James. Mother did not like nicknames, at least not for James. And never was he allowed to be called “Jim”. One of the nannies had called him Jaimie once. He had liked that. But Mother had been watching. Mother was always watching. And Mother told James that was why the nannie had to leave. James needed to learn how to treat servants, and that included preventing familiarity.

Mother had a strong nose. One of Mother’s old military friends had visited, and had joked with her about James avoiding that eagle like beak. Mother had smiled, but it was not her amused smile. James’ nose was straight, and like a triangle in the middle of his face. It didn’t have a curve, or a bump that Father said was from having a broken nose. Father had been drinking when he said that, and so James had not asked Mother about it.

James’ face was round. With dark eyes. Mother and Father both had blue eyes. James wondered if his eyes would ever slowly fade to that pale color. His eyebrows were different from both his parents, though Mother had the beautician take care to shape her eyebrows every two weeks so that they were straight on top, with a curve at the part towards the ear. Like James.

“James M. Moran.” The name echoed against the tiles of the loo. He’d escaped here during creative play time. The boy much preferred Sustained Silent Reading. Or he had until Siger and Prossie and he had become friends. Creative play was supposed to be “socializing”. The teacher had told Mother and Father that when he’d started here at the beginning of the term. Mother had said, “James is here to study, and prepare himself for college. Not to “make friends”. Not to play dress up, or with plastic dinosaurs.” Teacher had not argued. Few people argued with Mother. Mother felt that "friends" were like "Christmas". Unnecessary. 

During creative play both Siger and Prossie went to another room to work on “projects”. James was not in the “projects” class - Father had laughed and called it “liberal rubbish instead of work" when the Teacher had offered him a space. When Teacher had turned and asked James if he wanted to try it, James had known that Mother would not approve, and chosen wisely. But that meant that Siger and Prossie went without him.

The door swung inwards, and a smiling face framed by red curls popped around the edge. “Alright, James? Time for maths!”

“Yes, Sigur. Just coming now!”

Drying his hands, James grinned. Maths was the best class!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it is no longer actual Advent, I've taken the 2019 off. Left the word as a title, because it means the arrival of something. Some of you have, of course, already picked up on the canon (and not so canon) elements.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and encouraging me! It's lovely to be back to writing!


	6. Colonel Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions.

“Colonel Moran,” the servant said respectfully from the door, “The young master is home.”

Tony Cavallo Moran didn’t know the name of the servant. It didn’t matter, as they were interchangeable and easily replaced. “Well, Seb, looks like we’ll have to stop there, doesn’t it?” He gave his wife a tight smile, flapping the tablet cover closed. The cold look he received from his darling helpmeet was par for the course, and upset him not one bit. His position was secure. For now. 

And as for the future? Well, he had plans to ensure his physical safety then as well. His financial security, according to the prenuptial agreement was quite splendid.

Seb’s directions to the flunky flowed coolly past Tony’s bored speculation on the contents of the liquor cabinet. Then, “Wake up, Anthony. Make certain the boy understands his homework. I’ll see you both at the dinner table.”

Glorious. Well, the food was good. The sex was great, as Seb didn't care who else he took to his bed, so long as he was discrete and didn't give her an STD. The workload was easy. Easier, anyway, than reviewing higher level Latin and maths with spoiled college students. The boy was respectful – couldn’t be otherwise with Seb’s expectations – and interested in the subjects they worked on together. It was creepy to be addressed as “Father”, even though he’d known the boy for the child’s entire life.

Tony Cavallo Moran refused to speculate on Seb’s plans for the boy’s future. Better not to get attached. Ten more years on the contract, and then he was free as a bird. And rich as old Croesus.

The Colonel, as her hired hands referred to her, was very good with a gun. Only very good because there was always room for improvement. She kept in practice. Not that anyone but Bascombe knew anything about that. Her "husband" certainly didn't. He had no idea what gunpowder smelt like. He preferred her in less than subtle perfumes. 

Anthony thought the money he so desired came from investment. To be fair, Dear Jim had set her up with good steady strategies, and a stolid, careful investment manager – completely separated from any of Dear Jim’s illegal business practices. Everything above board. She’d enough after his murder to live on – extravagantly even – for the rest of her life. Tedious. There was no exhilaration in playing the society life, no matter what Adler might think.

No, manipulation had been Dear Jim’s thing. Seb Moran knew enough, though to set her own little bomb onto the road to finishing the final task Dear Jim had set for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry. This got posted with only the first half. It's been updated now. Thank you for your patience!


	7. Nursery Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's moodiness is noticed.

When Siger started school, he told his fathers that he was too old for a baby monitor. Pere flipped open Siger’s tablet. “What method of communication device would you prefer?”

“Hold on,” John started, “We still need the monitor for Ross and Miri.”

Siger considered. “Rosalind and Miranda aren’t babies either.”

“Oh,” John sat back in his worn, upholstered chair. “No, I guess they’re not.” That sounded sadder than he expected.

Sherlock shot him a look. Siger said seriously, “Daddy, we have to grow up, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, Siger Sweet, I know. It’s just happening a little more quickly than I expected.” John looked from his son’s serious face to Miri and Ross on the sitting room floor. 

They stopped their play at the mention of their names. Miri said cheerfully, “I want a monitor for Daddy and Pere!”

Siger loved that idea. Even Ross put her seal of approval, “Yes!” Then she said, “But I still want to talk to Uncle Mycroft.”

“What?” John said, startled. 

Sherlock clucked with annoyance. John started to comment, but was cut off with, “Rosalind, you have been speaking to Uncle Mycroft through the monitor? How do you know he is listening?”

“Because I asked him about a lavender pony, and he brought us pony coloring books,” she told him.

The detective growled. John hurried to say, “Ross, we’ll make sure you get to talk to Uncle Mycroft. Especially now that we’ll put the Baby monitors away.”

“Siger,” his Pere stood up, “Let us remove the offending eavesdropping devices immediately. Then we will look at communications alternatives.”

Siger was glad they no longer had the baby monitor when he checked the hallway outside the nursery. He could hear their fathers downstairs talking in the sitting room. He ran back to Auntie Harriet’s afghan, spread out on the nursery floor like a vivid rug. Miri and Ross had set up a circle of plush items to take part in The Conference. 

Siger told them, “I think Daddy is sad. He hasn’t mentioned Christmas since we put the fairy lights up.”

Miri nodded. “That was days and days and days ago,” she said authoritatively.

“It was only two days ago, Miri, but Daddy usually loves Christmas time,” Siger said.

“Daddy is sad,” Ross said, “Because he can’t do maths.”

“Daddy can do maths,” Siger said sternly, “He just needs to work some of it through carefully. Pere says he is very good with titration.” 

“Then why is Daddy sad?” Miri. 

Ross asked, “Data?”

“Yes,” Miri finished for her, “What evidence do you have so that we can figure out why Daddy is sad?”

Siger said thoughtfully, “We must gather evidence. And be thoughtful.”

His sisters nodded heads vigorously in agreement, and concluded the discussion by putting their plushies to bed. It was not long before Daddy called up the staircase, “Time to eat!” and the children went downstairs to begin their investigation.


	8. Happy Families

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James loves spending time with his Mother.

“Time for practice, James,” Mother held a hand out, which James eagerly took. “Let’s see how well you do now that we’ve talked about trajectories.”

The range in the basement was one place that Father never went. James would say that Father was not allowed down there. Nor were the servants. Not even Mother’s old friends from the Army. Just Mother, the range-master, and James.

The range-master was all grey. His hair was grey, his big mustache was grey, and he wore grey camo whenever James saw him. Even Sergeant Major Bascombe’s skin was grey. When James had first been brought downstairs to the range to meet the range-master, the boy had expected his voice to be booming, like the guns. Instead, he was quiet, and bland. Even his voice was grey, James thought.

Their schedule at the range was the only time that Mother held James’s hand. He liked it, the hand holding part, though the loud noises bothered him. Even through the hearing protectors. And the special ceilings.

It was a funny thing. Even though Mother wanted him to succeed in his classwork, or said she did, this was the only place that James knew he had her approval. It was a different type of approval. As though she was proud of him here. But school, and maths, and everything else was just so that James could get good at shooting. 

Mother had explained why the sounds from the range could not be heard upstairs in the house. Lots of soundproofing. James had looked up the formulas needed for the baffling. James always thought of the range as separate from the house that way. Part of it had been a wine cellar, and part a secret place for smuggled things. James thought the idea of a secret hiding place was interesting, but he was not allowed to share it with anyone. 

Even with Father. James didn’t talk much to Father outside of lessons anyway. Father talked only to Mother at the dinner table. James could not imagine father with a gun.

Sometimes the guns they practiced with were made to be quieter. Long guns, which Mother really liked, and handguns. Mother had the range master show James how he built the cartridges specially to make less noise. Mother and he had made sure James understood about the loss of power, and the change in accuracy for each different type of cartridge and bullet. 

The range took up all of the space beneath the house - cellar and hiding place. The lights were sometimes bright, and sometimes dim. Mother had said that once James was good enough with his Beretta, they would practice in the darkness with sound targets. James wondered how that would work with his hearing protectors on.

When he’d started the targets had been at the end of a long gallery, standing still. Now they moved. James did not have to think about the algorithms for their movement. Mother said that knowing the pattern of the targets movement was cheating. And it would cause him to miss if the target did something unexpected. She quoted Sun Tsu about fighting the enemy a lot.

Shooting was so easy that James didn’t need to think about the mathematics to predict where a target was going to go. Mother had the range master move the targets now, instead of the computer. She’d been startled when James explained the movement rates to her. James decided not to disappoint her, because he had figured out the range master’s patterns too. Sometimes James missed on purpose. It was just easier that way.

The range had a smell to it that James loved. Gun oil, and powder, and heat - and he thought of that smell as Mother’s. Sometimes he could tell that she had been to the range because of it. Sometimes she smelled like that after she’d been on a long trip. He was allowed to hug her after she returned from her trips, and there was always that faint scent on her big wool coat. It was a lovely smell.

James had gotten covered in gun oil in the beginning, when he was learning to take care of his weapon. His own personal weapon - the Beretta - was familiar. He liked the rifles- there were a lot of those, and his shotgun, a Mossburg - smaller than Mother’s - was not as fun to shoot, unless you liked a big noise. One of the nannies had been upset at the big purple bruises from the recoil when he was learning to use it. She had to go away too. Mother had called Ms. Farmer to the office, and James had never seen that nannie again. She had not been there long enough for James to miss her. Not like the other Nannies, Mrs. Spotz and Elsa. They were huggers and cuddlers and holders in the dark or scary times. Ms. Farmer had not been.

Some day James would learn to use his mother’s L118A1. She didn’t shoot it much in the range. “There’s not enough room, James. It is for accuracy at a distance, and there’s not much of that here in the basement.”

James knew his mother loved shooting. When she was upset she would come down and work through the obstacle course, and come out calmer. 

James liked shooting. He just didn’t like the targets. They were all the same person. A man with sandy hair and a gun. On the target he was wearing a British Army uniform. He looked younger in the target picture than he did when James met him at school one day. The targets were all of Siger’s Daddy. Mother didn’t know that James had met Siger’s Daddy, and James was not about to tell her. He liked Dr. Watson, who had a smile for James, and always picked Siger up from school with a big hug and a swing around in the air. 

Mother liked to quote someone - James could tell it was quoting. “‘In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king,’ James. Information is the key.” James knew that information on Siger and his Daddy was important to keep from Mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Physical affection, touch, is a requirement for a healthy brain. Brain scan studies of Romanian children adopted from orphanages in Romania after the Ceausescu regime fell discovered areas of the brain that were never turned on because adults in the orphanages were strictly forbidden to hold or touch the children. Ever. Their bottles were propped, and when their diapers were changed the caretakers were not to touch the children if they could at all help it.
> 
> Except for some children. They couldn't figure out what the common factor was. They weren't from the same region, or town or family. Until an intern, filing the scans, discovered that they were all from the same orphanage. Same floor. Same wing. A long dormitory. And the scientists flew to Romania and discovered that every night the janitor there on that wing would start with the first child, pick it up, hold it, and tell it that it was loved. Put that child down, go to the next. and do the same. All down the line. When she had done that, she finished her cleaning work. When the scientists found her, she was afraid she was going to be punished for doing that.
> 
> The children were still damaged - it's still abusive to withhold affection and attention from children - but they were not AS damaged as the others.
> 
> I worked with a child who was the age of my older offspring. But emotionally, physically? He was two years delayed. Even after years with a loving adoptive family. 
> 
> So. Go and hug your kid. Tell them that you love them.


End file.
